“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

9.01.2012

blue lunacy

september began under a blue moon and we hugged the trees - the tiny dogwood, the magnolia, the pear and cherry laurel, the pecan, the oak tree, extra pats on the belly for the hackberry, my old friend. we talked of placing water under the moonlight for this morning's tea, but exploded into laughter when i said if we put some water outside under the moon, we'll catch . . . and she replied mosquitoes. we'll be drinking lunacy, she said, blue lunacy, i replied, and then we were off into the night, trailing the laughter behind us, moon shadows everywhere, leaf shadows, the cat howling. blue lunacy.

for the first time in ages i picked up my camera and never mind the several second exposures, i felt inspired and tickled blue inside and the cat kept howling and august was almost behind me and it felt good all over. just a bit of a bit of a breeze, a hot night, and i admit it, i placed some water on a bedroom window sill and let the moon bathe it all night.

where august has been: inside my mother's house. new french doors, new floor, new tenant. emptied rooms. when i removed her calendar from the wall, her last year of handwritten birthdays and doctor's appointments, i fell into little pieces and all the king's horses and all the king's men were useless. only the tears could put me back together and i let them come, though in truth i had no choice. one last goodbye. all will be well. i can move forward.where august has been: in pain. this chronic, often severe, since february pain tapped me on the hip and pushed me on my backside and all the king's horses have again been useless. writing has been useless. doctors don't know, but we move slowly forward. i splurged on extra massages and a chiropractor with the new money from my mother's house, but the pain remains, and makes no promises to leave. where august has been: inside the business with its newly painted walls. a table for art and new fairy lights. no emma tree. i will show you later. what august gave me: an owl's feather, a now found long lost necklace, cello music. christmas carols in the jeep. old photographs and my mother's words.

this morning is september and the skies are gray and white clouds,
blue sky peeping through.
the music is lyle lovett's joshua judges ruth
and on the road this morning, a dead kitten, still warm.
i stopped the jeep to move it and lifting its body felt its last breath.
exhale.

6 comments:

whew...i knew you were missing. and hurting. and sad. i knew you would come back, eventually. different, perhaps. but pieces of old still showing, in there somewhere. you did, but my eyes mist up knowing the journey. dead mothers and kittens...sending a hug...in fondest. tilda

it reads much worse than it is - i don't know how to change that as i write it down - something i need to learn - but all is well. (except for my sore behind - lol!) the journey continues, the sadness much less. i write it down and it moves on. it comes back, but with less power, always with less power. the words are the truth of then, of days ago, or this morning, but always then. i have already moved past.

the kitten was real, but also a metaphor. and yes, the exhale. (i will learn to better title my writings.) the exhale is necessary before the intake of a new breath. i thought later of the death card in a deck of tarot cards - not necessarily representing death, but also new beginnings. xoxo